


Through A Portal, Darkly

by Shadowstar



Series: The Other Side of the Rainbow [1]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:18:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8373670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: Stiles is trying to escape Donovan; he believes he can escape Donovan. All the way right into another universe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, a little back story: I originally got into Teen Wolf because I wanted to see Tyler Hoechlin act after he was announced as Superman. So, I started watching TW aaaaand now here we are. This has been swimming in my head since I watched up through 3a. I don’t know whether to continue it or not, to be frankly honest, even if I couldn’t seem to find a good place to stop. I kind of do, but I also kind of don’t because I’m working on another Teen Wolf fic that is already over 30k and I’m not even half way done with it yet. I might, maybe do little oneshots or something.  
>  **Unbeta’d** ; please send any concrit or noticed mistakes to my inbox. Plz and thx.

If Stiles thought it would be easy, then he was definitely sorely mistaken. It was the sort of mistaken that landed him on his ass down an alleyway, the level of humidity shifting around him, the warning of rain still hanging in the air but the taste of ozone _so_ much stronger than it had been a moment ago.

All he’d been doing is running. Running, running, running; letting his feet carry him away, heart pounding in his ears, adrenaline and panic spurring him on. His shoulder aches, the wrench in his hand almost _hurts_ in his grasp, and he’s sure that he’s on the tipping edge of a panic attack. 

It wouldn’t be the first he’s had recently. It wouldn’t be the last. And he hates it, _himself_ , for it all the same. 

But he’d run. Donovan had been right behind him, a literal _mouth full of teeth_ on his _fucking hand_. His shoulder still aches, and he can feel the sticky-stinging cling of his t-shirt to the wound that will, more than likely given his luck, scar.

Just like everything else has. He hates seeing himself shirtless now; hates the jagged white line along his lower abdomen, what it represents. But it also serves as a reminder, one he clings to. 

But he’d turned the corner, sneakers screeching as he skidded around the corner, grip bruising around the heavy steel wrench in his hand, intending to head to the library to hide amongst the stacks, maybe up in the gallery. His thoughts had been on initials, on two in particular, and he’d wished for Derek fucking Hale of all people, _believed_ that if he could just make it through this, survive, he would finally get over his hesitance and place the call—or, more likely, write the email—that he’d been avoiding for months.

Derek had left with Braedon at the beginning of the summer, and then the two had split, and while he’s heard from Braedon, he hasn’t heard from Derek.

It’s stupid. He’s about to fucking _die_ and his thoughts are on the goddamn werewolf who’d fucking _abandoned_ them. But, no. No, he really can’t blame Derek for leaving because he knows what kind of town Beacon Hills is.

It’s a killer. And he was going to escape, himself, too, as soon as he fucking could.

But right now, right _now_ , he is breathing harshly, trying to keep his limbs from shaking, keep from face planting when he finds himself down some unknown alleyway that should _not_ be here.

He’d been indoors. In the fucking _high school_. What the absolute fucking _hell_?

Despite his best intentions, he finds himself tumbling. Falling to his knees, the air rushing out of him in a grunt, feeling suddenly dizzy. He can hardly breathe, but this isn’t the dizziness or light-headed feeling he gets from a panic attack. This is a headache, a _crash_ , something he’s only ever experienced before during the summer that Boyd and Erica were missing, hunting up every goddamn detail he could to try and find them. It was the crash that came from staying up for days, _days_ , with a mixture of sugar and Adderall and a healthy dose of nightmare-fueled thoughts; the one that Derek, in fact, had finally pushed him to. Had finally insisted on, because he was killing himself, and Derek was guilty enough.

Derek had curled up beside him, that night. Held onto him. They’d held onto _each other_. And when he’d woken up fifteen hours later, Derek had been gone, and they’d never spoken of it, but it had _meant_ something. He’d been so sure, had promised himself to push and ask but it had been for nothing.

He’d never asked. He’d never said a word, not even a bizarre half-mention, or some vague metaphor meant to bring them closer together, not once. He meant to, he did, but it never happened. Not after the Darach. Not after the Void. Not after La Iglasia and the desert and Derek dying.

He hears a noise in the alley, like rustling cloth in the wind, and he pushes himself to his feet with a grunt, gritting his teeth. It’s a fight, a struggle, dredging every last ounce of will and energy he has to get his muscles with cooperate with him. He’s breathing fast and harsh when he’s finally on his feet again in the close, heavy darkness, squinting over his shoulder at the unfamiliar surroundings, but he can’t make anything out. Not in the dark, not past the spots; the shadows cast by the buildings are thick and dark, eating up what little light might filter in from the lamps at either end.

He almost misses the sound coming again, slightly closer now, like a bedsheet on a bright summer day caught in the breeze. He’s wound tight with anxiety, feeling it hum beneath his skin like an electric current shocking his nerves to keep still and tense. He’s not sure if he should move forwards or backwards, not even sure if his legs will continue to hold him if he tries. Can’t even place where the sound has come from, only knows that it is now punctuated by the soft, sure steps of thick-soled shoes.

His arms shake with the trepidation of just _standing_ there, waiting, watching the dark and the shadows, waiting for the end he knows is coming. Shaking to hold the wrench up, feeling his inability to hold it up any longer in the way his arms begin to _ache_ with the way he’s holding himself.

The sound of the cloth and the footsteps is echoing, splashing, crunching closer to him, and his heart begins to pound faster, ratchet up. It feels like some small animal that has been caged, panting and cornered and wounded, trying desperately to escape its confines, even though all it does is hurt itself. It’s getting harder to make out the difference between shadows between the buildings, and the spots dancing in front of his eyes with the dark edges making everything _swim_. Making him dizzy and nauseas and so very sure that he’s seconds away from passing out.

“Hey, sir, are you alright?” the voice comes from the dark, suddenly, right in front of him.

It’s a shock to his system, fast and sharp, stopping his heart for just a moment. Leaving him breathless as the wrench finally falls from his fingertips, clanging to the ground to be lost beneath the shadows at his feet. But the shock is enough to bring everything into sharp focus, for just a moment, just enough, as he shifts nervously to his left. Ready to turn and run, to rush to one end of the alley, to find something familiar.

But something familiar is revealed before him in the bit of light that reaches this far into the alley. Familiar is hazel eyes that have haunted him, edged into his thoughts far more than they should, especially when he knows that it should be earthy brown that should take up his thoughts. Familiar is the strong jaw he’s watched tense and just and demand answers, even as it dips in grief, hangs in rare surprise, ticks with barely-contained anger. Familiar is the cheekbones that are normally shadowed by a fairly attractive scruff.

Familiar is the voice and the concern, and for just a moment, just a _second_ , he believes.

“Sir?”

“…Derek?” The name is slurred, heavy on his tongue, tasting bitter and tangy and distinctly like relief. 

And just like that, as though only the breath for the word, that _name_ , was all that was left in him, his vision goes and he pitches forward, already unconscious before his eyes are even closed.

*=*-*=*

The first thing Stiles becomes aware of when he, well, becomes _aware_ again is the bright ass light that is assaulting his eyeballs. Stinging and definitely florescent, it puts his sluggish, aching brain in mind of Beacon Hills Memorial. Sound comes back to him a little slower, faint and muffled like through cotton. He can’t distinguish voices, can only vaguely guess that two are male and two are female and are speaking somewhere nearby, with no indication of distance. 

The last thing that comes to him is his body; the feeling of it. The way his muscles ache, everything feeling like a giant bruise. He can imagine it; his body painted in vivid blacks and purples, burst blood vessels just beneath the surface making him seem anything other than human. Even his _hair_ aches. All of it a low thrum, making him distinctly uncomfortable, but nothing in particular standing out. At least, not at first. But as he becomes more aware, he becomes more conscious of the tight pull of medical tape on his shoulder, the heavy weight of a bandage only emphasizing the almost biting-sting of the wound Donovan had inflicted on his shoulder.

A broken, grating groan escapes him, vibrating up from his chest and making his head _pound_ , leaving him almost breathless from the ache of it for a moment. But he’s felt worse, been in more pain than this, and he fights his body’s urge to go back under and instead forces his eyelids open over gritty eyes that won’t focus for a long, long moment.

The face that swims in front of him is unfamiliar, dark eyes and face a blob for a moment before it slowly focuses into something stern, cautious. There is a large, strong hand in the center of his chest, probably belonging to the man, and he hadn’t even realized that he was starting to try to sit up until that hand presses him firmly back.

“Welcome back to the land of the living. Do you know who you are?” The man’s voice is deep, a low rumble. Quiet, powerful. It reminds him of Boyd.

Unbidden comes the memory of Boyd: broad and built like a brick wall, until he wasn’t, curling over a wound that would not heal, his dark eyes lifeless and reflecting back the horror and grief on Derek’s face.

The memory has him sucking in a sharp breath and releasing a broken, grating noise, trying to shrink away, chest tightening painfully in warning.

Immediately the hand is gone, replaced by others, by far gentler against his bruised-feeling sternum and psyche. A woman, now, golden blonde with changeable, almost unearthly eyes and a red-painted smile that murmurs soothing sounds that he can’t quite make out. Her hands are warm, almost hot, through the cloth covering his chest. In comparison, the set of smaller hands are almost _cold_ as they help ease him, pressing against his skin for a moment before she’s moving away.

“Hey, hey. Easy. You’re okay, you’re safe,” the blonde woman insists, holding him carefully by the round balls of his shoulders, surprisingly strong in the way she pins him there.

“Where—“ is all he can manage through a throat like glass, dry and sore, almost _shredded_ , as though he’d been screaming.

The pause after his question is telling, and his stomach flips, or tries to, and he squirms against her hold on him. But her hold remains, never once even flinching or shifting off him, pinning the mere human in a way that reminds him of ice-filled tubs and death. He stops struggling at the memory, the thought, practically vibrating.

“What’s your name?” the woman prompts, gentle and warm, eyes flickering away from his to someone else just past him. Likely the owner of the smaller hands, given the angle.

“Stiles,” he croaks, swallowing with a dry click of his throat, gritting his teeth against the feel of it.

“Hi, Stiles. You’re safe, okay? Do you remember what happened to you?” The questions are both inquisitive and meant to be a distraction. He would be impressed if he wasn’t in pain, if he didn’t feel like he’d swallowed a bunch of thumbtacks.

“Yeah,” he manages to croak, opening his mouth to say more—or to try to—only to be paused by the cool, blessed feeling of ice against his lips, against his tongue. Knowing the drill, he sucks on it, closing his eyes and concentrating on the moisture as it soothes the desert that his mouth had become. It doesn’t take long for it to disappear, and it’s only seconds before it’s replaced by another.

As he tries to build up the moisture in his mouth and throat to speak, he puts together pieces of what he knows. What little he can remember through vague impressions and fear, what bits and pieces his brain has held onto between the crash and the waking pain. He’d been running from Donovan. Had run around a corner, towards the library, but when he’d gone around the corner he’d found himself in an alley. Someone had found him in the alley, and he has the vague impression of seeing _Derek_ but that can’t be true, isn’t right, but he supposes it must have been some deputy of his dad’s, one he didn’t recognize. But he doesn’t recognize the hospital room he’s in, and he doesn’t recognize the woman he thinks must be a nurse. Hadn’t recognized the dark, stern face he’d opened his eyes to, either, though the man had had authority in his bearing.

So that begged the question, then: what the actual _flying fuck_ was going on?

He can only stall for so long, and once the second ice cube is gone, the gentle blonde is once again prompting him to answer if he remembered what had happened.

“I was… I was running. Through my school. Running away from… someone, and then the next thing I know I’m in an alley,” he tells her, voice still low and rough but not quite feeling or sounding like sandpaper against a cinderblock anymore.

The blonde blinks, brow furrowing, something like a confused smile spreading her red-painted lips. A soft, disbelieving sound escapes behind a flash of white teeth as changeable eyes glance up again, but this time not at the owner of the smaller hands.

“How… that doesn’t make any sense,” the woman tells him, turning her attention back to him. “Are you sure you didn’t black out?”

The question earns her a scowl, lips twisting in an already pale face and making it seem even more so.

“I’m pretty damn sure I didn’t black out. All I did was turn the corner,” he tells her, and her smile fades, the corners of her mouth turning downwards as she glances around again.

“How is that even _possible_?” The plaintive request is aimed at the others in the room. At least, Stiles hopes so, because _he_ sure as hell doesn’t fucking know.

Isn’t even sure he _wants_ to, at this point, given everything that’s happened.

“Magic,” comes the answer, simple and easy, in a voice belonging to _someone else._

The voice is like a punch to the gut, pushing all the air from his lungs as he jerks against the hold the blonde woman suddenly has against his shoulders again. His heart is beating, fluttering against its cage again as he turns his head. Painfully, slowly, he makes his muscles and tendons and joints cooperate, his ears ringing as he turns to _stare_. Because, there. It’s the person who found him in the alley and now that he can actually fucking _see_ him?

The man doesn’t just _look_ , vaguely, like Derek. The man is the werewolf’s fucking _doppelgänger_. Down to the weird way that the man’s eyes seem to shift colors, even at this distance, in the harsh light that is still partially-blinding him.

“Magic?” the woman holding him scoffs above him, laughter warm and bright in her voice.

The man’s— _Derek?_ What the actual _fuck_ —attention doesn’t leave Stiles, though.

“Yeah. Magic,” the man—Stiles can’t think of him as Derek, he can’t, he _can’t_ —informs the woman, eyebrows arching upwards, and.

That’s when he notices it. The little things. The way the man holds himself, easy and sure, his presence filling up the room. There is no scruff, no lines of stress or grief across his forehead, at his eyes. There are smile lines, instead, for all that the man is serious with the way his broad jaw is set, even with the dimple in his chin. And his _hair_ , it’s some bizarre thing out of the goddamn _1950s_ with a single strand that just doesn’t seem to want to stay up, keeps wanting to curl against his forehead.

Curl. Forehead.

Let it not be said that Stiles is unobservant. No, actually, his friends will say that he is probably the most observant of them all; that he is able to piece together puzzles they can’t, _notice_ things that they miss. Make connections that seem a leap, until the whole fan unfolds into a proper painting, each cardboard piece fitting into its slot _just so_.

But when Stiles had awoken moments ago, he’d been distracted by the memory of Boyd, and then by the feeling of glass in his throat. Then, of course, it had been trying to put together his own puzzle, internal and weighing the value of trusting the people around him. Of figuring out what to say, what story to give, what lie to spin to protect the secrets that aren’t entirely _his_. But there is blue, and there is red, and there are two giant S-shaped symbols blazoned on _two_ chests, one of them belonging to the Derek-look-alike.

“Holy shit,” he manages to wheeze, and this time the constricting around his lungs is not panic, it’s surprise. There’s too much, _too much_ , swirling around in him. This knowledge, these thoughts. Beacon Hills is bizarre, weird. They’ve faced evil druids, an Alpha Pack, a trickster Void spirit, even a freaking _deadpool_. None, not a single _moment_ of it, not _one_ of his experiences could even _begin_ to prepare him for this trippy new bullshit.

Donovan had to have gotten a hold of him. Had to. And he must be dead; must have skidded around that corner and careened into a wall to end up dead and gone and… _here_.

“Holy… Holy _shit_ , no.” The concern is back on blonde—No. No, nonono _nope_.

“Stiles?” Her voice matches the look on her face, her eyes bouncing between his and the man across the room that he can’t quite seem to keep from looking at either.

“I’m dead. Yep, I am. That’s right. I’ve died. Because, nope. No _way_. Not a _chance_ did I fall into… into…” Erica’s face, their joke, springs to his mind and he wants to _cry_. Wants to curl into a ball, sink away from the hands that are almost painful now, to _escape_.

“You’re _comic book characters_ ,” he whines into the silence, high-pitched and distressed, sounding like one of the wolves he’s run with for almost three years.

“You might want to stop there, kiddo. What you know, we don’t _want_ to know,” the man in blue tells him, easy and gentle, but _stern_.

“But. But you. You’re fucking _Superman_ ,” Stiles protests, flailing uselessly against the hands still on him.

The sigh that earns him is tired, exasperated, and something close to _resigned_. It is so very familiar it makes Stiles go still, closing off, remembering his mistake with the man’s identity earlier.

“I am. And we’ll figure out how to get you home. But I am not exactly an expert in magic,” Superman agrees, crossing his arms over his broad chest, solemnly nodding to the black man past the blonde woman’s shoulder.

Past _Supergirl’s_ shoulder.

“Do you want to make the call, or should I?” And the man sounds just as _done_ as Superman does, making Stiles wonder just who the man is, who he could _be_.

“I will. But I do have a quick question,” Superman tells the other man, focusing once more on Stiles. “When you went around that corner, did you say anything? Or think about anything?”

The question throws him for a moment. But then a conversation about Mountain Ash and something about a Spark and his will and belief come to him, from years ago when everyone was alive and not six feet _under_. He shrinks under Supergirl’s hands, chest tightening again.

“I believed that I would escape and get away,” he breathes, hoarse and with the sinking realization that this is _not_ going to end well, at all.

Judging by the look on Superman’s face, he seems to be having the same thought.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://pinkybitesu.tumblr.com). Also, please let me know if this is something that should be continued beyond what my poor little brain has spewed.


End file.
